Passing the Torch
by vanillafluffy
Summary: Alec is dying, but he isn't alone. How his fate intersects an ambitious young man's and changes his future. Goldeneye meets Assassins


**Passing the Torch**

The young man was a sniper trainee in the Cuban army, and on that particular afternoon, he'd gone for a hike. Technically, he wasn't supposed to take his rifle off the base, but how else was he supposed to practice enough to be the best in his unit? He'd prudently saved extra rounds for his free day so that he could get away from the sergeant who screamed and ranted all the damn time. It didn't matter if it was the fellow next to you who was getting the brunt of it...you still had to listen to all that bellowing.

There was a quiet place in the hills a few miles from the base...he'd been there for less than twenty minutes when a helicopter flew overhead. He stilled, and the aircraft flew past him. This was exciting, in its own small way, and he smiled to himself, then froze as he heard it land. Creeping toward the landing site, he heard gunfire, the chopper trying to rise, and an explosion.

What the hell--? He began working his way to the top of the ridge with due care. It was just barely possible that someone from the base was trying to teach him a lesson, but somehow, he doubted it. When he cautiously peered over the summit, he saw a little valley with a serene lake surrounded by hills. The remains of the helicopter were aflame on one of the slopes. And, he realized for the first time, it wasn't an army-issue bird.

Should he look for survivors? Go back to base and report? There was some sort of facility down there, maybe he should try to alert them. While the young man considered appropriate options, the surface of the lake began to churn. As he stared down at the water, still as glass moments ago, something began to rise from beneath the surface. No--the level of water in the lake was lowering! Emerging was some kind of metal structure with a giant white bowl below it--a satellite dish? Impossible, he would've said, but here was the evidence.

Sit tight and scout this out, his instincts told him. Such an awesome feat of engineering must be masking something extremely secret; _he _certainly wasn't cleared for it; rushing down there was apt to get him killed.

There was an explosion from inside the facility mere minutes later. Shortly after that, two men emerged and pursued each other onto the metal structure above the dish. From his vantage point, the sniper lifted his rifle and sighted on the drama below. He had no idea who the men were, but they were obviously trying to kill each other.

This wasn't his fight, and he wasn't about to shoot the wrong man--with no idea of what was at stake--but his breathless voyeurism came to an end as one of the men plummeted to the unyielding surface of the dish far below. Obviously, the guy was paralyzed from the fall, the sniper thought. The fallen man's face, magnified by the rifle scope, showed effort and pain. The other man was clinging to the structure as another civilian helicopter approached.

When the survivor leaped to one of the skids on the helicopter, which wheeled away from the site, the young man considered taking a shot at it. He sighted on the dark-haired man who clung to the support bar. His finger tightened on the trigger. At the last moment, his attention was diverted from unsuspecting target as the blazing gantry collapsed onto the dish. The fireball lasted briefly, then died out as the sound of the chopper's rotors faded into the distance.

Training his sights on the smoldering ruin, he was startled to see spastic hand motions from the man lying in the remains of the dish. Somebody had survived _that_?

Caution warred with curiosity, and curiosity won. The sniper made his way carefully down the slope. Crossing what was left of the girders was tricky, but he was consumed by the desire to find out what this battle had been about. The accellerant had burned away rapidly. The dish was surprisingly cool--perhaps not so surprising, he thought, having chilled in a lake beforehand would help it absorb the heat.

The man lying in the dish was still horribly alive. He'd been badly burned--his face was blistered black in places and his eyes were dead cinders--but he was gasping for air, emitting sounds of agony that made the young sniper wince. The man called out something in English--then in Russian, he groaned, "Who's there?"

There were quite a few Russian advisors on the base--he'd picked up a little of their language--and the young man answered hesitantly. "I was hiking and I heard the explosion. Should I get someone?"

"Water," the man pleaded, his voice harsh.

That much the private could do; unfastening the canteen from his belt, he held the container to the man's cracked lips. "Stay," the burned man said after managing a couple of swallows. "I'm dying. Stay with me."

"I'll stay," the would-be sniper said, "but tell me, what happened here?"

"Fate," said the other man grimly. "Who are you? What's your name?"

"Miguel," he answered. "Private First Class Miguel Bain."

"From the base."

"Yes."

"Any more soldiers out there, Miguel?"

"No." He explained his desire to train more, his ambition to be the best sniper in his unit. Miguel suspected the Russian--if he was a Russian; he'd cried out first in English, after all--just wanted to hear a human being; he probably could've recited nursery rhymes for all it mattered.

"What a waste," the dying man said when he was through. "You could use your skills to make money for yourself."

"What? How?" The younger man was puzzled. Perhaps his acquaintance was rambling?

"Assassination. You'd need a contractor." Miguel listened, bemused, as the dying man outlined the steps involved. There was venom in his tone, even though he choked and gulped for breath. The younger man had no doubt that this man had availed himself of such services, or performed them...he sounded perfect capable of killing, if he were able. Rage and hatred outweighed death for the moment, and the man gave the would-be sniper clear instructions for introducing himself to a suitable employer. "...Millennium Consulting...ask for RC, and say the White Russian sent you..."

Miguel administered more water. The White Russian. That was ironic, considering his condition. And it was ridiculous for him to think Miguel could go make contact with some consultant in America.

The other man wasn't finished. There was a contingency plan for a getaway, and he told his young confidante in detail where there was a small, fast boat and where he could find money and a dealer in blackmarket identification. Whoever this so-called White Russian was, Miguel was somewhat in awe of him by the time he finally asked, "Tell me something, Miguel--have you ever actually shot anyone?"

"No--but I stabbed a man in a bar fight. They said if I was going to kill people I should be in the army."

A bark of laughter, quickly halted as pain wracked him. "This should be good practice for you. Finish me off, then go. Go be the best at your chosen profession."

For a moment, Private Miguel Bain looked at his strange mentor. The scorched figure was barely recognizable as a man, but despite his agony, he'd given the young sniper the distillation of a lifetime's experience in a very short time--names, contacts, procedures. Miguel wasn't expected back at the base for six more hours. By then, he could be in Miami...he worked the bolt on the rifle and lined up the shot so that the bullet wouldn't penetrate or ricochet off the dish.

"Thank you, whoever you were," he said as the crack of the rifle faded away. There was no response.

The young man slung the rifle over his shoulder and began making his way toward the smoldering facility. As of now, Miguel decided, he was AWOL, and vowed he'd use the dead man's cache to make a better life for himself. And some day, damn it, he _would _be the best in his field.

* * *

I've had ideas about Miguel Bain. Cuban origin came to mind a while ago, but then I was watching "Goldeneye" again, and got ambushed by this Bunny... 

The usual disclaimer applies.


End file.
